


Fireworks

by Zjol



Category: PAYDAY (Video Games)
Genre: Brotherhood, Childhood, Gen, past alcohol abuse, past drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 16:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5749927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zjol/pseuds/Zjol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fireworks. They were just human inventions that threatened to part the sky. It was sharp sometimes, soft in others. It was unruly. It was artificial. </p>
<p>Houston didn't like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> A short standalone piece today.

“How are you still afraid of fireworks?”

“Dallas, shut the fuck up.”

“No, man, I’m fucking serious. We’ve been in literal firefights—actual bullets and shrapnel and blasts and fucking bulldozers. How are you still afraid of a little explosion in the sky?”

“I really don't want to talk about it now, Dallas.”

“Come on, you're like, what, thirty?”

“Thirty one, asshole.”

“Oh. That's even older. And that makes it worse. You big, fat baby.”

Houston bristled. “I am not.”

Without lifting his eyes from the screen of his mobile phone, Dallas scoffed and continued to tap away at the device. Houston settled back down, curled against his brother’s side. It was always like this on the Fourth of July. He had never been fond of the festivities and he had grown to absolutely dread it because of the fireworks. Stupid, fucking fireworks. 

Once the sky was lit with deep booms and whistles, Houston had a habit of running to the most contained room of the house and cover himself in a blanket. It had helped when he was a kid and he was desperate to have it help as an adult. 

When it had first hit him, his fear of the fireworks, Houston was about ten years old living with his brother, who was thirteen years his senior and who had been conveniently going through a particular period of sobriety. Houston remembered that he had darted from the living room and into the dingy bathroom, shaking and trembling, ears too attuned to the rumblings of the fireworks as he climbed into the tub and sat, his hands clamped over the side of his head. It had been the first time he had heard such things in the proximity. Fireworks had always been faraway visuals, but having moved to live in the city near the bay, it led to closer colourful explosions, with the sound loud enough to nearly shake his insides. 

And it hadn’t been just that. It was how it seemed to envelope him. How the sound was above him, next to him, under him, roaring and unpredictable, sometimes followed by in distant sparks and rattling. It was how present it was in his ears and out, how it seemed to clutch the sky. 

It was different from thunder. Thunder sounds warm. It has a nice bass tone that scores the clouds with light touches. Like sharp gurgles, like robust hums. Thunder was applause after a solo clap. Thunder was natural and its echo reflected it as such. 

Fireworks. They were just human inventions that threatened to part the sky. It was sharp sometimes, soft in others. It was unruly. It was artificial. 

Houston didn't like that. 

When he had been a kid, sitting hunched over in the bathroom, palms sore from being pressed to his ears so tight, Dallas had peeked in and didn't say a condescending word. He just sat down on the bathroom floor beside him and stayed until the storm passed, uncharastically patient. 

Of course, now Houston didn't hide in bathrooms. He much preferred the comfort of a bed and blankets and pillows and throws. And it certainly helped if his brother was with him, too. He knew the man liked to pick on him for it, but he also knew he wouldn't abandon him. 

Houston shifted the pillow under his head with a frown, suddenly listening closely. 

The fireworks had slowed down and there was currently a brief pause in the cacophonous arrangement of whistles and clattering. He could relax a bit now. Or could he? Now, all he was really doing was anticipating the next hit. That picked on his nerves just a bit. He pulled the blankets tighter as he curled in on himself some more.

Dallas looked away from his phone. “You okay?” he asked quietly, the jest gone. Houston pressed his forehead to his brother’s arm, eyes closed. 

“Will be when this fucking night ends.”

The elder gave a low hum of thought. “It’s just about eleven. It’ll probably continue until morning. You know how Americans are.”

Houston shuddered. He did not want the fireworks to continue. No, sir. 

The safe house was quiet and empty, but it only served to let the fireworks echo and almost amplify. Most of the crew were out drinking and celebrating and the new foreign imports were particularly excited, as they've never quite experienced the American fun that is booze and fried foods and the red, white, and blue of everything. 

Everything. 

Houston himself was a sober man by choice. He did not drink. He preferred water and kale smoothies and the occasional indulgent order of root beer. He often voiced that it was because he wanted to keep his mind sharp, to leave little room for error. To not be hindered in the function that is logic and emotion and reason. 

It was true, absolutely, but it was only a part of the story. Alcohol had not been a good friend to his family. And alcohol had not been a good friend especially to Dallas for a very scary and brief period of time of Houston’s childhood. 

The smell of it still bothered him and Dallas was careful to not drink around him again, as to be considerate of his little brother’s sentiment. He often asked the other heisters to refrain from bringing booze to the safe house under the guise of “because this is a workplace, guys”.

Houston jumped. The sound of the crackling rained down and the screeching flew up. The fireworks began again and he groaned, clutching a pillow against his ears. Dallas gave him a sympathetic look. 

He slipped an arm under Houston’s shoulders and tugged him close until his head rested on his shoulder. 

Houston was his baby brother. Dallas was to protect him, to guide him. With a cough, he tried to keep the bitter chuckle from escaping his lips. Of course, Houston had followed his path into crime and deceit. Not a necessarily good or just path—in fact, it was the complete opposite. 

But it was fine. They had only really robbed and shot the people who stood in their path, and who, by the way, usually shot at them first. Something, something, self-defence, right? Sort of. 

It wasn’t like they sought to kill innocent bystanders or to scare them, nor did they sought cause unnecessary harm or terror. It was never Dallas’ intention to hurt civilians.

Yes, they were criminals. Yes, they've committed crimes. Stole money, stole goods. 

But they weren’t evil. They did not cause harm for the intention of causing harm. They did not cause chaos for the intention of causing chaos. They did not rape, pillage, or commit murders. They were simple bank robbers. 

They used to be simple bank robbers. 

Dallas raised his phone and continued his conversation with Bain, his little brother wrapped up closely by his side. He gave a long sigh. He tapped a quick message to the contractor about continuing the discussion at a later time and plopped his mobile onto the side table. Houston shifted at the sudden sharp sound of metal hitting wood. 

“Sorry,” Dallas whispered. The fireworks continued to explode and shatter above the safe house, bringing about deep crackling and booms. Houston made a pathetic noise, something along the lines of a whimper, and Dallas felt the urge to tease him, but he knew the reflex manifested from his discomfort to the situation. The two had never been quite close. It wasn’t until just before Houston joined Payday when they began to talk more often and when they began to bond. 

Dallas had always assumed that Houston had held some contempt or bitterness over how the elder had treated him in his youth and childhood. Criminals tended to come from unstable backgrounds and, well, it was more than true to their story. 

He didn't want to remember much, but he did remember his sprees of alcohol-fuelled rage and his coked up episodes and the occasional piss drunk pass outs in the hallways, on the couch, and once on the fucking john. Kids were not meant to see such displays of fucked up behaviour and fucked up choices. He had been just barely ten for fuck’s sake. 

Houston looked up at him as Dallas tensed, unwilling to let certain past images flood his mind. He remembered that shit, but it was only the surface. He definitely remembered that it only got worse the deeper he went. 

He remembered his instability; tripping up the stairs, knocking over Houston’s science projects, puking over his papers. He remembered how the landlord had once came up the splintery old stairs and threatened to kick them out. Yelling and spluttering at the young and glassy eyes Houston. Dallas definitely remembered coming home after bar fights, face swollen and bloody. He didn't quite remember what he had looked like after said scraps, but he was certain that it had not been pretty. Dallas could remember the first time he had brought the violence home. He remembered Houston’s set jaw fraying his wide eyes. He remembered him cowering with closed fists. 

Dallas felt certain shame grip his heart and he frowned at it, a little angry to have done horrible things and a little angry to even feel remorse—like a weak human being with some overblown proportions of morality and family values or some shit. 

Houston regarded him carefully, trying to not flinch at the fireworks continuing in the background. Dallas met his gaze and Houston could catch a glimpse of the solid sorrow. It looked like Dallas was still battling with it, which was to be expected. They had never quite discussed their history, never quite getting the closure they both needed. Never quite moving on. 

Houston gave it a go. “I forgave you for all of it,” he whispered earnestly. Dallas scoffed and turned away, shaking his head to himself. 

“Listen to yourself, little brother.”

Houston pulled the blankets up. “I'm not fucking around, man. I do.” Dallas smiled with no hint of amusement, looking away from him. Houston took a deep breath. “We never got to talk about.”

With a grunt, “Not much to talk about.”

“Then you wouldn't still be beating yourself up about it if there wasn't anything left,” Houston said after some thought. Dallas shut his eyes and rolled over, wrapping his arms around his brother, cradling his head with his hands. 

He needed Houston to shut the fuck up. It hurt to think about ever letting Houston forgive him and it stung to know that Houston believed that he deserved it. He didn't really. Anyone with half a brain could see that there had been some unjust and rather cruel actions done to a child. Anyone with less could see that Dallas deserved the worst for it. He made no amends and he did not make an effort to undo the pain he had caused in Houston’s childhood. Dallas had soiled the essence of innocence for him, something even he had the privilege of experiencing. He fucked up Houston’s life from the very beginning and here he was, decades later, forgiving Dallas for his crimes against his humanity. 

He had matured better than himself, despite the odds. 

“I love you,” Houston said softly, voice muffled against Dallas’ chest. He gently pulled away from his embrace and propped himself on his elbows. 

“Love you, too, little brother,” Dallas said in a whisper. Houston nodded, gaze drifting down.

“I told you that I forgive you.”

“Don't say that shit, man, I know you still hate me for it.”

“Hate’s a strong word, Dallas,” Houston said simply. “I don't hate you. I just hate the shit that had made you like that. You used to scared me.”

“Do I still scare you?” Dallas first offered it as a jest, but through watching Houston’s brief reaction to the question, he regretted asking. He frowned. “I still scare you.”

“It’s not that,” he said stiffly. “I still get nervous sometimes. And I still get nightmares.”

“You never told me.” 

Dallas did not enjoy the silence that followed. It was out of the ordinary, it was uncomfortable, and its rarity made the discomfort ten times more potent. Houston was a straightforward man. He hardly sugar-coated anything, preferring direct tactics of speech. His cautionary pause in the conversation made Dallas worry. 

Houston averted his gaze to the ceiling. “I try not to think about it.”

“You're always telling me to deal with my demons, what are you doing?”

Houston considered it for a moment, his brow twitching in thought. “It's not something that can be dealt with just once.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's a recurring issue that cannot be fully cured. How I deal with it is by not letting it run my life.”

“So. You're ignoring the problem.”

“Dallas,” Houston turned his head and gave him a torn look. “It's hard to explain.”

The elder shrugged. “You don't have to. It's fine.”

Houston nodded and rolled to his side, pressing his cheek to his brother's shoulder. Everyone, he believed, had their own demons. No demon was less than another. His own struggles with night terrors and nightmares, well, they were a part of his life. There wasn't much he could do about it, besides standing his ground and not crumbling to the weight of his fear. 

It was absolutely true that he had forgiven his brother. To have Dallas even acknowledging the past events, with or without remorse, was enough for Houston to let go of the issues and live with some closure. He knew now that Dallas hadn't quite grasped his own. 

“You weren’t always bad, Dallas.”

“Hm?”

“I remember once you came home and you were on something that made you all giddy and dumb—”

“I don't like where this is going, little brother.”

“It's a happy story, don't worry. You read to me to sleep that day,” Houston said with a fond smile. He paused. “I mean. You came home at two in the afternoon and thought it was night or some shit. And you were reading me a phone book. But it was the—”

“Thought that counts.”

“Right.”

“I don't really remember doing that.”

Houston clicked his tongue. “I’m surprised you remembered anything at all. You were never quite sober.” Dallas bowed his head. 

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“I didn't mean it like that,” Houston replied quietly. It wasn't his intention to make his brother feel worse. 

“It would have been more than deserving if you had.”

“Dallas,” Houston said sharply, an exasperated frown pulled over his face. “If you want to keep feeling like shit about it, that's your choice. But I don't want you to.” Dallas opened his mouth quickly to object,

“You don't need to coddle me.”

Dallas rose from the bed and stretched. The dimness of the room made it difficult for Houston to make out his form. He readjusted the sheets, pulling them up to his chest, still frowning. 

“I’m not coddling you,” Houston retorted in disbelief. 

Dallas snickered, void of jest. “You are. It's feelings and emotions and forgiveness with you,” he replied stiffly. “It's not healthy. It's not strong. You're not usually like this.”

He opened the door and left as the fireworks began again. They lit the back of Houston’s mind, scattering booms and bangs in an untuned scale, loud and rattling. He curled over onto his side, sheets clenched into the fists pressed against his ears. He tried to keep from trembling, instead, to focus on Dallas’ last words. It was difficult to pry himself from his own personal feelings of the matter, but he distanced himself the best he could, to objectively review the situation. 

Dallas was going to be in turmoil, he was going to skulk, and be upset. He was only human. He seemed to have made it more than clear that he preferred to deal with it on his own. Houston decided not to push any further. He wanted his brother back. 

He laid beneath the sheets, still trying not to tremble, waiting for Dallas and his warmth to set itself into bed again. It wasn’t everyday that they got to sleep together as it wasn’t exactly something they wanted the rest of the crew to know. It was private. It was theirs. 

Houston caught the distant flush of a toilet somewhere down the hall, listening to the gentle padding footsteps return. The sounds stopped by the door and Houston frowned to himself, wondering what could possibly be taking Dallas. 

He peeked out and was met, with some mild confusion, with Dallas leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, pensive and grieving. 

“What’s wrong?” Houston asked. 

The elder shook his head. “Do you remember that Halloween when you were nine?”

“I’m surprised you do.”

“The one where I took you out trick or treating and made you wear a dumb costume? I think it was like,” Dallas paused and looked away in thought. “An old pillow case. And you were supposed to be a ghost?”

“Dallas.”

“Or were you a sheep? I don't fucking know.”

“Dallas,” Houston repeated. 

“What?”

“Just come to bed.”

Dallas complied, but continued his point. “Remember how you made me that costume, too? You crafted it at school. It was made of paper.”

Houston covered their bodies with the sheets and laid down against his brother, silent in Dallas’ chatter. 

“Construction paper. I was a dog,” he grinned. “No, wait. I was a wolf! And you were a pig. I was the big bad wolf with those fucking paper ears.” He nudged at his brother. “I think they melted in the autumn drizzle.”

Houston rolled onto his back. “I was seven, not nine.”

“You sure?”

Houston nodded. “Yeah. When I was nine, I didn't go out much remember?”

Dallas tensed before breathing a low exhale. “Yeah, now I do.”

“You remember why?”

Dallas scoffed to himself, shaking his head. “I don't want to.”

The fireworks struck the sky and crackled loudly. Houston shifted uncomfortably. “Me, neither.” 

He turned into his side, back facing Dallas, waiting until his back was against Dallas’ chest to relax. 

“I think I was more bruised than not back then.”

Dallas groaned. “Don’t.”

“You didn't hit me as much as you threw shit at me. Being drunk meant you couldn't run after me.”

“I wasn't just drunk,” Dallas said. “Probably coked up as fuck. High out of my mind. Probably thought you were a fucking cockroach on the walls.”

Houston’s low laugh rumbled against Dallas’ chest and he tugged him closer. He felt an apology balance on the tip of his tongue, but knew better than to spew it. Houston’s method of coping was analysis through dry humour. And he shared it with him. And Dallas needed to cope anyways. 

He shut his eyes and pressed his nose to the back of Houston’s neck. He mouthed an apology against the softness of his skin before speaking aloud, “Get some rest, little brother.”

“I’ll try. Good night, Dallas.”

“Good night.”

Dallas kept his arm wrapped over the broad form of his little brother. He had pretended to be asleep for the rest of the night, his mind whirring with thoughts and regrets and tangents of grief, all while knowing Houston had been awake as well, his mind just as preoccupied. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Zjol.


End file.
